Three
by disneyfangirl2015
Summary: They say three times the charm but a third world war isn't so charming; especially when it isn't the good guys that are winning. Mentions of FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur wanted to know, wanted to know how they got here. Amongst the ash and fire and rubble laid his comrades, unconscious and injured from the barrage. Francis was beside him, stomach down, a hand in his, his breath gentle. They had taken shelter in what was the nearest building at the time – a café, small and aged yet sturdy enough to not shatter completely from such a large blast. The Brit wanted to lay there longer so he could be with Francis, to know the Frenchman was safe, and to be safe himself from what was ahead. Alas, he was not a coward. Laying here for comfort and safety in a battleground would not suffice for a hero.

Hero. Arthur positioned himself to his hands and knees and began crawling, making his way out of the destroyed building. The word _hero_ turned his stomach as he was reminded of Alfred. He was not the hero. Even through the past year and a half, no one could quite figure what had happened to the boy. Matthew had suffered greatly as well – mostly due to his brother's own misfortune and ignorance.

The Englishman stopped and wiped his eyes, the smoke burning them and bringing tears. If he could only blame it for his sadness too. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen don't cry. "Damnit all!" He cried, sitting against the wall with his face in his hands. He knew. He knew this was going to happen but he never said anything. This wasn't America's fault. It was his. Perhaps he should have raised him better; not left him alone for so long so many times. Or maybe not have been so harsh on him to begin with.

Sounding as though someone was approaching, burning and broken boards falling to ground, England's head shot up, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Francis?" He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight but didn't smile, wiping the tears away. His best friend held out his hand. He took it. "I'm sorry for leaving you- "

"No, you're not." Francis crossed his arms, his uniform torn, the ascot around his neck, loose. There was a scratch on his cheek and his left eye was bruised. Dust and dirt littered his hair.

"No," England admitted, shamefully. "I'm not." He sighed again. "But…I couldn't stay. I needed to scour the area and find-"

"It's war. I understand." He took Arthur's hand and gave it a light squeeze. "This isn't his first battle."

Arthur looked up at his lover. "It's quite obvious. I'm more worried about it being his last. He's reckless,"

"He's always been reckless."

"And now he-" The older man took him into his arms for a brief hug.

"Mon cher," The Frenchman started as he caressed the Englishman's cheek. "It's going to be okay. And do you know why?" Arthur stared back, waiting for the answer he didn't know. "Vous n'êtes pas seul."

"It… Thank you, frog." He accepted Francis's statement and continued his way out of the broken-down café on his feet this time. He listened as the blonde behind him followed. From his view above the ground, he quickly realized how bad it truly was. He had seen terrible things, dreadful things, but the destruction and death he was witnessing took the cake. Bodies were strewn about, no more than a foot apart. The corpses were not just innocent bystanders. They belonged to the enemies; soldiers of the Bloc were among the dead.

The Bloc could be something compared to the Axis Powers but fell short by one nation. Their goal was, most assumed, global domination. They had already taken over South America and Canada, half of Africa, the Middle East, and almost all of Asia. Europe was difficult. Most nations had a thousand plus years of fighting experience. For those that did not or had a sibling to protect (Switzerland, for example), they were swiftly taken down and imprisoned someplace with everyone else. What happened to them afterwards, Arthur didn't know. He was afraid to know. Would they die? Killing a personified country sounds difficult enough but do things like this, and it will die _very_ easy.

"Arthur." Francis's voice brought him out of his thoughts and back into the real world. "We should see if we can find anyone else."

Arthur nodded and walked opposite of the male nation, green eyes looking hungrily through the debris. The crackling of the fire stayed the silence, the Englishman's footsteps echoing in the dim light. If he was where he thought he was, Germany should be in this area. This is where he was before the attack, before the shower. "Germany." He called, expecting an answer. Nothing. He continued his search, instead finding a brother laying out rather oddly in the middle of what once was the road. England rushed and knelt by his side, checking his vital signs. Alive. "Gilbert, can you hear me?"

It took a moment and a bit of shaking but said man opened his eyes, flinching and reaching for his side. England spared a glance to see it was bleeding. "Can you stand?" Prussia gave a small nod and wrapped an arm around the Englishman's neck. "You wouldn't happen to have seen anyone, have you?" He questioned once they were standing.

"What kind of question is that?" Gilbert asked through his breath, gripping his side as he spoke. Arthur frowned.

"I was only curious. Francis and I must be the only conscious ones then if I found you first. You were lying in the middle of the road."

The albino hung his head as he thought. "You haven't seen my little brother?" Arthur shook his head. "He was right here-"

"I know and that's who I was looking for." The Brit informed before sighing and setting the man down on a chunk of concrete. Prussia was getting heavier and it wasn't he that was getting tired. The silver-haired man was severely injured and needed medical attention. Considering that he was no longer a country, it was important he not be in these situations. "Let me see." Arthur demanded of the other male who obliged by first unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it to the ground then lifting his shirt. "Shrapnel." England frowned and pulled up his sleeves.

"This is going to hurt." He had done this many times before, especially during the World Wars but he had never perfected it. Magic isn't perfect. The energy flow, no matter how controlled, cannot soften the removal itself. That requires another spell all together but there's no time for that in dangerous situations. He heard Gilbert hiss in pain before relaxing. Arthur took his jacket and began to tear it into strips, handing them to the man. "I'm sure you can handle the rest on your own."

"I-"

He shouldn't do it himself because it would not be done correctly but Arthur had to find his friends. "I'll be over there." He pointed down the street and made his way.

 **It's been a long time. I have stories to finish but I like this and it'll be five chapters at the most.**


	2. Chapter 2

Germany. There he was, buried beneath the rubble. The only reason England found him was because he was conscious and calling for help. He had been trapped. Now they sat there for a moment, breathing in the smoke and ash, waiting for Gilbert to arrive, so they could look for the others. "He should be here by now."

"You know my brother. He likes to take his time!" Germany stood, dusting off his uniform as though he hadn't when he was rescued. "Perhaps we should go to him instead. We might be sitting here all night if we let him come to us."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "Right. We still need to find China and Japan, as well as Spain and Hungary and the others. It's important that we-"

"They're not here, Arthur." Francis said, making the younger turn around and face him in confusion. "I saw them being…taken away, in chains. It's impossible to go after them." The Frenchman stated, knowing his lover was going to want to go after them. "They were being forced into a police van, having been…stripped of…everything but their clothing." He was forlorn, knowing that now, only a few of his friends were left.

Arthur knew this was how France felt. It was how they all felt. It was clear from the look on all of their faces. "Is that why Gilbert was lying there in the road? They were going to take him but realized…he isn't a country any-" He should be thinking about his friends, not Gilbert and why he was where he was, but he had begun to feel disoriented. He lost almost everyone now. Three more nations and he'll lose his mind.

"We should check on him then." Ludwig stated, his eyes flickering from the flames to the other end of the road. "It's not good to be alone out here, nation or not. These corpses are proof of that."

Arthur had forgotten about those and ran, expecting to see the Germanic nation yet not finding him. Not alone at least; and not alive. That gaping wound in his side no longer mattered. It seemed to have been a waste to remove the shrapnel now. England's heart shattered even more. How did he have the power to do this? It hurt.

He heard a moan escape Germany – who arrived just a second ago – as he cried at the sight before opting for something more suitable and angrily attacking the murderer, pulling his gun from its pocket and aiming for the assailant. He took a shot but he was shaking so much that he missed. Barely. It grazed the man's cheek, paining him. The German reset, more controlled this time, spiteful and still angry; the opposer's taunting grin did not help.

Arthur was slow to respond, his mind racing. "Ludwig, wait!" Said man paused and reconsidered his actions; he took Gilbert's lifeless body into his arms and held him close, quiet. England looked back at the fiend, who was still standing there, observing with a bloodied knife in his hand. Gilbert's blood. A gun sat at his hip, ready for use when called for. "What are you doing?" The Englishman demanded.

"Are you angry with me?" He laughed lightly and placed the blade it a holster. "I think I'll miss you the most." He tilted his head, never having lost that smile.

"You're not in your right mind, America! You can't just do this. You're killing-" Arthur tried to argue, waving his arms in the air.

"This is war, Arthur." His grin grew from that of a Cheshire Cat into a sadistic serial killer, sending shivers down Arthur's spine. "Ivan and I will have this world for ours."

"What about your friends, your family… Matthew!" He felt Francis appear beside him and he took his hand, gripping it tight.

"What family? You were never my family. Family doesn't want to hold you back, doesn't want to keep you from succeeding."

"That was centuries ago-" Alfred was talking about the Revolutionary War. Why was he bringing up past mistakes? Things that could have been avoided if England had not been so stubborn and selfish.

"And Mattie is gone. He didn't want to join me in my conquest with Russia so I had to get rid of him." His hand reached for the pistol at his waist but didn't grip it, instead running his fingers over the grooves of his name engraved in the cool metal.

"You…killed him? Your own brother?" Francis questioned. Arthur looked over and found the Frenchman was not sad but mad. Visibly. It did not happen often.

"I didn't want to and I would have left him alive but _he_ ," Alfred suddenly became angry, his fingers gripping the deadly weapon. "Wouldn't leave me alone. He tried convincing me it was not worth it, that I was going to lose." He scoffed. "Did you hear that?" Slowly, he pulled the gun from its case and into freedom, waving it about. "He called me a loser!"

"Alfred, stop!" Arthur commanded, wary that the gun might go off. This nation of more than four hundred years, this nation of whom he raised and cherished like both a brother and son, had snapped. His government became so corrupt and the people so radical in their ideals that he lost control. He became dangerous.

"If I killed you or you," He pointed the barrel of the gun first at Arthur then at Francis. "That means I can prove Mattie wrong." Laughter escaped the nation, crazed and deprived of true emotion – feelings.

"You killed him," Germany said from the ground, at America's feet, still cradling his brother. He did not look up until the next statement, showing his resentment and sadness and confusion. "How can you prove it if he's dead?" So he wasn't referring to Gilbert.

America blinked, losing his smile. "Because, Ludwig, when you die, you go someplace very special." He smiled again, not as crazed this time but something hid within his eyes. Arthur couldn't quite place his finger on it. "He's watching me right now."

England was a firm believer in Heaven (although he hoped he would never experience the place) but Alfred using it to explain that was how his younger brother would watch him kill their family and achieve his evil plan was wrong. Arthur voiced his thoughts and his former charge turned to him, upset. "You've always thought you were better than me."

That was not the reaction the older blonde had expected. It threw him off, making him take a step back and nearly trip and fall on a corpse behind him. If he hadn't been holding France's hand, he surely would have. "No, I have not." He looked at the man next to him, the one he was joined to. The shaggy-haired blonde still faced Alfred, frowning silently. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

America laughed again and crouched down beside the two Germanic brothers, staring admirable. "You were always so strong. You refuse to give up."

"Don't we all?" The Brit wished his comrades would help him out instead of just being there, staring at the broken country like fools and leaving him to speak.

Alfred's gloved hand fell to the ground, hovering above the litter that was once buildings and city property. "You always put me down." His voice was calm and his eyes were focused on the trash. "You want all eyes on you. Always loud and rambunctious."

England didn't move, frightened by his brother's behavior. What was he thinking? "It was the other way around, Alfred."

"You only ever did get loud when you argued with Francis, didn't you?" He glanced quickly at said nation before turning back to the ground. "I'm surprised you're not dead yet. Your military isn't-"

Arthur didn't expect his lover to respond but he did. "I will not die because of a lunatic." Francis waved his hand, recomposing himself. "I almost feel sorry for you. You're my brother."

America twitched, his face scrunching and contorting into a mixture of emotions. "You're not mine." There was a scrapping sound as he grabbed Ludwig's gun from the ground. The German, in his sorrow, had carelessly tossed it away. "I bet Mattie wants to see me again."

Arthur felt his heart race, his tongue frozen. "Alfred-" Francis spoke for him, causing the German to look up again and freeze. "Don't."

"He'd be happier here with me than alone in Heaven." The things that came out of this boy's mouth. Alfred took a step forward and America put the gun against his temple, ready to pull the trigger with a smile.

Arthur looked at Germany, who sat there petrified. "Germany, do something!" Said man was closest and had the power to stop the young American from killing himself.

Alfred was still on the ground, making it easy. He smiled. "Why not just pull the trigger yourself?" Ludwig almost choked in shock. "I killed your brother. Don't you-"

"No, don't listen to him." Francis said, an urgency in his voice.

Alfred laughed maniacally, causing all to cringe. "Are you really going to keep him from killing me? I want to die."

This had to be the worst lie Arthur had ever heard. Germany couldn't believe this. "He's lying." His stomach twisted. Germany was buying the bait.

Said man placed Prussia on the ground, making sure he looked comfortable enough before taking his gun from the American. His mood suddenly changed. He was angry, shoving the barrel against the nation's temple. Alfred laughed quietly as he almost fell, opting to sit. "I wish it didn't have to come to this." Ludwig said, his anger slowly turning into tears over his brother. "You killed him."

"I did you a favor." He hissed when he heard a click.

"I never needed any favors." He pulled on the trigger but the bullet didn't hit his target, instead flying through the air. America had shoved him away, sending the nation onto his back. He pulled out his knife and attacked, slicing open the man's leg.

It took a moment for Francis and Arthur to register what had just happened. They knew America had a trick up his sleeve but didn't know what or when to expect it. Arthur was the first to move, running to the couple as Germany fended off Alfred with a metal bar. It was ineffective however and the younger nation was causing injury to his vitals. Ludwig's cries of pains accompanied by the stabbing made him freeze. If this was not Alfred murdering in cold-blood, Arthur would be perfectly functional but this was _that_ Alfred.

He watched as Francis tackled the American and struggled with the knife, managing to grab a hold of it and pocket it. England approached Germany and held him, taking his hand. A bloody mess. Blood, everywhere, it was impossible to tell where the openings were. With his breaths shallow and his eyes dimming. He was dying. Of course. Germany itself had gone to shit. Ludwig could not live if his country was in that state. "I'm sorry." England breathed, choking on tears. "This is my fault. I knew this was going to happen-"

"I…had a hunch-" He coughed blood, specks flying onto the Englishman's face and uniform. England flinched but didn't wipe it away. "Myself. No one- certain of-" Again he coughed, more blood than last time. He turned his head to keep it from hitting Arthur.

"You can't die!" He cried, his voice rising and casting across the dead. He and Germany had their history, mostly bad, but he still cared. He needed the nation alive. He was a comrade. Peace was coming to him, his hand growing weaker and weaker. "Ludwig?" Said man didn't speak. "Germany!" Nothing as a tiny smile came to his lips, his eyes closing, his hand going limp, and his chest finally ceased to rise.

Arthur felt the tears fall. One could say that his other comrades were alive and well and were simply imprisoned. No. They would be killed. Alfred would want to do it himself. Ivan – wherever he was – was letting the boy do all the work and he would later reap the benefits. How could America not see this? Or did he and just not care? He had, after all, gone crazy. That was the reason he decided on a global takeover in the first place.

A gunshot broke through his consiousness, bringing him back to reality. It rang in his ears, deafening him to where the world was spinning. However, he could see just enough to realize the scenario had gone from bad to worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**I apologize for how short this is. I found it on my laptop - in the recycling bin, I might add. The thing is, I had this typed up long ago but deleted it because of school. I forgot about it and this story but whatever. It's being posted XD**

"Francis!" Arthur screamed, his hands flying to his head in distress. What was wrong? France was fine. It wasn't in the perfect condition but still, it was stable enough…right? Did Francis and Alfred know something the Brit did not? "Francis!" He was ready to run to the Latin nation's side, life fading, when his former shot at him, grazing his thigh and sending him to his knees. Wide green irises met with narrowed blue ones. "America, you need to stop!"

America sneered and advanced, suddenly ignoring the dying country on the ground. "No," He growled as he pressed the barrel of the gun against England's head. "You need to stop."

"You can't kill me." Arthur stated, wishing he had his own weapon. It could injure the young nation just a little, it would allow England enough time to grab Francis and run.

Alfred tilted his head and jammed the gun again, harder this time, and pushing the Brit's head back. "Not as you are now." He dug a hand in his pants pocket, fishing out a small device. "All I have to do is flip this switch and you'll wish you were dead."

The older male inhaled sharply, fearful, before his gaze darted from said device to his brother. "You're not you, Alfred-"

"I really wish they were here to see this."

The calm remark made England stutter. "'They?'"

"Your so-called 'friends'." He pulled the weapon away, allowing both parties to relax a little. "You know, the ones you conquered and destroyed over the centuries. I think they might have enjoyed this."

"Alfred," The Englishman dared a stern tone. "We don't hold grudges like that. We learn from our mistakes and forgive. We're friends for a reason." He looked at the Frenchman lying on the ground. His heart stopped. Fool, what was he doing!? If America heard him, he surely would be dead.

Alfred noticed that his former guardian's eyes were set beyond the American, a concerned look written on his face. "Would you be happier if I killed him last?"

"What?"

"Would you be happier," The American grabbed England by the collar and lifted him up off the ground, the barrel pressed against Arthur's temple. "If I killed you first?"

That was not the same question as before but Arthur understood all the same. "How crazed have you become? Where is Ivan? You both claim world domination but Russia is not partaking. You've become so diluted that you've fallen for his schemes! He's using you – he's going to take credit-" He flinched when he heard a click but continued. Alfred needed to hear it. "You once told me that I used to be great.

"Now I say the same to you: You are no longer that hero you claimed to be, no longer a great nation, no longer someone to look up to. You've fallen. I won't blame you entirely but you allowed yourself to work with people who do not share the same val-" A gunshot. He waited but there wasn't any pain. "Alfred?" He took a quick glance at the nation, who stood shell-shocked and frozen.

Coughing erupted from behind them, drawing Arthur's attention. "We have to go, mon ami." He struggled onto his hands and knees, staring the couple down. "Arthur." He addressed, seeing that the Englishman had not moved. "You know there's not much time."

It was not that Britain didn't want to leave, he just hadn't fully comprehended the situation. "You…Alfred, are you-?" Still, the American was unresponsive, his hands shaking. Slowly, England removed the young man's hands and watched as he fell to the ground, his hands flying to the back of his head. It was then did the Brit realize Francis had shot him in the head – the second most detrimental area of a nation's body.

"Arthur!" Said man tore his gaze from the man on the ground before him to the one just feet away. "Please. He'll recover soon." Francis was begging and Arthur didn't blame him. However, seeing his younger brother in the state that he was, the green-eyed man didn't want to leave.

"Francis, I…can't."

"What?" Said man sounded in pain, both emotional and physical. "Alfred will recover in a few minutes – he isn't going to die unless… Please, I don't want to die!" His French accent thickened, alarming Arthur.

The Englishman turned his head and gasped, running over to the nation that stayed struggling to stand. A gun was at his feet. A European model and not too far away laid the Prussian and an empty holster. "I'm sorry. I just…" He answered once Francis was up with an arm over his lover's shoulder. "I can't stand to see America like this. I've never seen him hurt this bad."


End file.
